Fun with Time and Space

I wake at 4am but stay in the warmth of bed, drafting poems in my head.

I stitch together words about the palpable silence, enfolding me like velvet.

Craft prose about my nine-year old’s ability to now use tweezers on his own.

I sift in the warmth of jersey sheets, the soft pillow under my head, the scent of aloe soap on the Bohemian’s bare skin next to me. I do not want to leave this bed to write. I’d like to languor here, right now.